The Genesis of a Zallun
by Stormcrow
Summary: In the Zallun Empire, a hidden evil seeks war for glory. Can a greenhorn Zallun officer and his friends uncover the truth and keep the Galactic Federation in tact?


Chapter 4- "Destinies Crossing " 

            Gail's felt a mix of anger and embarrassment heating her neck and face, and loosened her collar a notch, to compensate. The Sniv looked completely nonplussed as she addressed him, and though she was used to such a response from the marine, it still irritated her.

 "Vralla, how many _times_ do I have to tell you Tracker I is not a personal toy?"

            "Go on, den. How many?

            Her eyes and hands shot heavenward in frustration. "Are we professionals, here, Ward?"

            "Dat bein' a good question, too. Ima getting' back to ya on dat one."

            "I don't know how you do it, mister."

            "It's all in da wrist, Cap'n. See, ya' just…"

            "Can it, scaly."

            "Dja. Okay. But de kid not bein' hurt, so Ima thinkin' things gonna work out, no?"

            Gail glared at her newly appointed First Officer as though Vralla had just sprouted wings from the side of his head.

            "Given that you may have _freaked him out_ bad enough to send him into cardio, I'm not so sure 'things gonna work out,' any more. That aside, we still need to convince him we're not the criminally insane and that he can, somehow, trust us.

            "Even Panocha scared this kid, and if _Panocha_ makes the kid jumpy, then the rest of us haven't a prayer.

            "You pray, Cap'n?"

            She gave him a "you know what I mean" look, before continuing.

            "Listen, I told you to just make contact with him, not make him wet himself, which he probably did. Best we know, he's probably never even used a gun for anything other than chasing predators away from that herd Commander Panocha reports him as having. How is the Commander, anyway?"

            Vralla rested chin in hand, for a moment, and said, "If Ima remem'brin' right, he's bein' okay, but I seen da bruises dat he got, and dey not pretty. Docta' Hall say Commandah Panocha gonna be all good, doh."

            "Good, good. I need to head down to sickbay and check on him. Uncivilized hicks. Can't even treat a blind guy half-decently.

            "Anyway, like I was saying, the indications are that this kid is," and she begin to tick the points off on her fingers, "Lacking in education, completely without military training, probably low on social skills—though that's just a guess—and not at all suited for a command position.

            "Add to that the fact he probably thinks he's being stalked, and I'm not even sure our offer will have the slightest bit of allure for him."   

            "Even five-hundred bigguns?"

            "Even five-hundred million credits. I mean, sure he'll want the money, but there are more than enough legitimate looking scams out there that even we have to be on guard. And we know what to watch for. This kid sounds paranoid, and he might well just figure this for some kind of scheme to fleece him. We've already scared him once, and if we spook the kid again, there's a good chance we'll never get him, in which case we're through."

            "Don' worry, Cap'n. I get him for you."

            "No!"

            "Whoa, dere. Hold on. He din't see me, dja? So Ima sayin' I be nice to him, wave some money, you know."

            "You had your chance, mister, and you blew it. Besides, I think it might be safe to assume some xenophobia here. Soliven is populated almost entirely by Derivians, except the capital city, as I understand, and there's a chance he's not ever seen another sentient species."

            "No Tammies, eh?"

            "Point taken, but usually, they spend their time dealing with the merchants, which he, apparently, is not. From what little we've been able to garner on him, he's just a rancher. Cap'n Lazna's father seems to have been his legal guardian since his parents died when he was age five or six or thereabouts. As best we know, he's been on this ranch ever since. And the village nearest the ranch is so… backwards… from Commander Panocha's report, that it might be a wonder if half the population can even spell 'backward'."

            "So… I not be goin' back, den, is what you say?"

            "You got it."

            "Dat's all I needed to know. Anyway, Cap'n I gots tings need'n takin' care of, so I'll jus' be going, now, dja?"

"Get out of here."

"Djyoo gottit."

            Gail let herself fall back into a chair as her second-in-command slipped out of the officer's briefing room and back to the bridge. Initial attempts at contacting Sarray had not gone well, and while she tried to hide her concern for the continuation of the Daggers, she wasn't sure whether or not she'd fully managed to do it. She'd read the will— very thoroughly —several times, and there was no getting around it. Either the kid, Matthew Sarray, assumed full command for at least five years or three missions, whichever came first, or the Obsidian Dagger's ceased to exist.

            She'd cringed when she first read the proviso for his minimum period of command, since she was hoping for a loophole that would allow the boy to just do things the right way and hand the unit back to its rightful owners. But Sterling had, for reasons his own, surgically removed that ray of hope. She had intentionally left that detail out of her report to the crew, shortly after being rejected on Peridon V, though she knew that Jared knew, and that most of the officers suspected somesuch.

            Even so, she was sure this Sarray kid had no military registry. And while merc outfits weren't "properly" military, BMAB still insisted on military-style regulations and ranking structures, ensuring at least a reasonably insane level of complication amongst the myriad mercenary units. In other words, no matter which mercenaries you were dealing with, ships were almost always commanded by a  "captain," ground forces by a "commander," and so on and so forth, adjusting for racial translations as needed. On top of that, there was also the legality afforded military officers. BMAB had been very careful, especially since the "boom and bust" of mercs during the brief, hot war with the Scourge, to ensure that not just anyone could assume to be a ranking officer, even if only in a mercenary company. That meant that one way or other, this kid would need to be put through the process of being made an officer.

The trick to it was that he had neither experience nor seniority. In fact, his only claim to a captaincy was his designation in Lanza's will. BMAB may know about the situation already, but Gail knew bureaucrats well enough to know that there'd still be the devil to pay, when it came to getting a farm boy his bars.

            She sighed, closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Ghost of Sterling Lanza help us. With that thought, she hit a button to open a audio-only channel to the sickbay. A few moments later, the gravelly voice of Dr. Hall came on line.

            "Hall here. What'dya need?"

            "Dr. Hall, I need a report on Commander Panocha."

            "Driggers got him good, but I've managed to patch him up even better. You wanna talk to him, Gaily?"

            "If he's available, yes."

            "One sec." She waited as she heard the murmured conversation between the ship's medical and political officers, and then listened as Hall's voice was replaced by the more mellow tones of the Dagger's poli-liaison

            "Commander Panocha here. What can I do for you, Captain Silvestri?"

            "How you feeling, Jared?"

            "Well, I heard what Dr. Hall told you, and, while a bit more coarse than I would have put it, that about sums it up."

            "Glad to hear it wasn't overly serious. What happened?"

            "As I mentioned before, I approached Sarray about the offer, and I suppose I came across as some sort of threat. Several of the other patrons accosted me before I could follow him out of the bar, and then assaulted me for two or three minutes before tossing me out in the street.

            "Fortunately, Commander Sudhallas had been in Tracker I during the incident, or I think we may have had a mob on our hands, after he had finished dealing with the men that attacked me.

            "From there, we attempted to trail him to his home, and then it went, well, downhill from there."

            Gail nodded, appreciatively. "Understood, Commander. Do you feel up to attempting contact again?"

            There was a pause, and when Panocha finally responded, she detected a definite note of hesitation in his words. "You wish for me to try again? Captain, given that I have already given him quite the scare, I'm not certain…"

            "Yes, yes, I know. And I told Sudhallas he couldn't go back because he'd already lost his chance by scaring the kid. But see, you didn't pull a gun on him, even if it was only to use the barrel-mounted light.

            "Of all the people on this ship, only you and Lieutenant J.G. Flezorn are smooth enough talkers to still have a chance of changing his mind. As I told Commander Sudhallas, this Sarray kid might have a case of xenophobia, and I don't want to risk running him of by triggering that on top of his paranoia."

            "I see," Jared said, slowly. "So, you believe that since Matthew and I are of the same race, and since I was the first one to actually encounter him, that I could somehow convince him that our meeting in the bar wasn't what he thought?"

            "Exactly. And let's not forget that you need to convince him to join us. See, even Flezorn isn't likely to be able to pull that one, meaning you're our last, best, option."

            "Begging the Captain's pardon, but I must respectfully disagree with that opinion."

            Gail raised her eyebrows, and leaned in closer to the speakers. "And why would that be, Commander?"

            "Well, if I might be blunt, yet professional, I believe that _you_, sir, are the most well-suited person to talk to him."

            Gail frowned at the voice. "Go on," she added, warily.

            "Well you see, Captain, as I said, I need to be blunt but professional. First, you are the commanding officer of this entire company. You, of any of us, have the most right to make such an offer and, as such, have the most legitimacy."

            "Yes, but my ability to delegate authority is not in question. And your statement is not exactly all that blunt. Get to the point I'm sure you're trying to make."

            She could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath and a long exhale, on the other end. "You're a woman, and you're about Matthew's age."

            That earned a hot scowl, and she was on her feet in a heartbeat. "If you mean to use me as a…"

            "No, no, no, Captain. Not at all what I was implying."

            "This had better be good."

            "Yes, yes, it is. To put it straight, most of the crew tells me you're not terribly unattractive— hear me out — and Matthew is of the age where women are of marked interest to him. Honestly, if _I_ have already given him cause to fear me, and most of the rest of the crew is unqualified, in your opinion, to do this, well…"

            _The_ crew _is telling him this? I wonder what else they've been saying about me. If I find out that_  any _of them have snagged a copy of that picture..._ Gail could feel her blood beginning to boil, but as the logic settled in, she felt some of the heat draining out of her. The idea was valid, she had to admit, but that neither meant she had to agree with nor accept it. She sighed.

            "Noted, Commander. Conceptually you _are_ correct, but I'd rather not use my 'not terribly unattractiveness' to land us a future. With all due respect, as you say, I still believe you are the prime choice for this mission. _However_," she added abruptly, knowing she'd regret it, "I will accompany you to the planet. We'll discuss thing from there."

            "Very well. Is there anything else you needed from either Dr. Hall or myself?"

            "Yes. When can you be ready to leave?"

            It wasn't until the fans wailed and then dopplered into the distance that Matt realised he was still alive. What the? For several minutes, all he could do was stare into the blackness, neither moving nor blinking. About the time he realised his eyes were dried out and burning, he snapped to, and slumped back in the bucket seat, rubbing his eyes for the second time tonight.

            I'm... alive. I'm _alive_?

            Blinking a few times, he gazed off into the night, as his eyes slowly made the adjustment to the low light levels. Matt probingly pawed at his arms and face in an attempt to verify his aliveness. His tactile findings were encouraging, and he reached for the key in the ignition, just to make sure. Yep. Still feel that, alright. Hesitantly, he turned the key, and the engine coughed to life, but held a firm idle, once started. _Okay. More good. Good._

            His attempts at backing up were repulsed by the vehicle, but he found that he could still go forward, and that was plenty good enough. The accelerator was a bit soft, and the steering slightly unresponsive, but Matt had no doubt he could still make the Sheriff's office in good time.

            Sheriff  Mark Borgerund did a double take as Matt walked through the door. "Son, you done look to've seen a spook, or something," he said, jumping to his feet. "What's gotten to ya', Matt?"

            Matt shooks his head and brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead. "Got a beer?" Borgerund nodded mutely, and went to the small refrigerator in the kitchenette near the back of the cramped police station.  He snagged a pair of tall, metal cans from the cooler, and tossed one Matt's way, even as the rancher was settling into an old, plastic chair. Matt's trembling hands barely managed to catch the can, but he succeeded. He fumbled the can in his hands, for a moment, and then held it fast, though in a quivering grip. The lawman just shook his head in pity, as he pulled up a chair in front of the young man, and leaned forward to give him a  look-over.

            "Frell, Matt, someone try to kill ya', or something?"

            "Actually, yeah. Or at least, they sure got me thinking that."

            "You know them pranks are taken pretty ser'ously 'round here, right? If them school kids are up to their drek, again, I'm shuttin' them down long term, this time."

            "Yeah, I know. But I don't think this is a prank," Matt said, shaking his head. "I think it's the bank."

            The Sheriff leaned back in surprise, eyes wide. "You mean, ol' MacIntyre's after you again? I thought I already made it clear that they weren't to use illegal means of getting back that cash your granddad borrowed from them. Drig those fat bloated..."

            'It's fine, Mark. I don't think they actually meant any harm. I mean, not right _now_. But there was no mistaking the message they were sending, and I wouldn't be surprised if it only gets worse from here."

            "You think it'll come ta' that, huh? Well, lemme get some papers out, and you can start filin' a report, right here, right now."

            "You sure about that? MacIntyre's got real pull, 'round here."

            "He ain't above the law, Matt," Mark answered flatly. "Shioll, I don't care _how_ much money his fat end it sitting on. He screws around with the good folk of this region, it's my duty to remind him we got cells big enough to hold even him. For a long time. "

            "Thing is, I haven't got a scrap of proof. I start blaming MacIntyre without any evidence, and his lawyers will eat me alive."

            Mark c0cked his head to one side, and rested his chin in his hand. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "You got probable cause?"

            "Million and a half. Sure."

            "What're you willing to stake on you being right?"

            Matt gave a somber laugh. "What do I _have_ to stake on it?"

            Mark chuckled grimly, too, and nodded in agreement.

            "You know, Mark," Matt sighed, shifting the yet-unopened can to his other hand, "I'm not sure I even wanna keep trying. I mean, really, look at my life. Honestly, take a good look at it. No friends, buried in enough debt to practically buy this whole town, got a girl I think I'm madly in love with, but can't even bring myself to talk to her. Add to that the fact that I'm a complete failure as a rancher, and really, what's left?"

            "Aw, Matt," the older man said, slapping him on the knee, "You know that ain't true."

            "What part of it is a lie, Mark?"

            "The part about not having any friends."

            Matt sighed again and slumped his shoulders. "You know what I mean, Mark. Frell, only reason you're being so nice to me, right now, is because you're the Sheriff, and it's your job to 'protect the innocent.' Well, that and you're everyone's buddy, long as they're on the right side of the law."

            "Come on, Matt, that ain't true, either."

            "Isn't it? I mean, look, I appreciate your help, here, but you gotta admit that we're not _really_ all that 'buddy buddy,' when it comes down to it. Like I said. I'm just not sure if I should even run from them. I mean, think of it this way— they bag me, I'm debt free and problem free. Forever."

            "You're also dead."

            "Price for everything, isn't there?"

            The two men shared a short laugh, and Matt straightened in his chair, beer can catching a gleam from the overhead lights.

            Mark's face took on a puzzled expression "Matt? I didn't think you were a drinker."

            Matt snorted a quick, ironic laugh, and looked down at the beer warming in his sweaty hand. "No, guess I'm not. Must'a been all that time spent at the Nest. Figure that everyone else comes there when they need to forget their troubles, and the first thing they do is get a beer. No-one ever said you had to _drink_ the thing."

            They both laughed again, and Matt felt his spirits lift, some, for the first time since meeting the dark stranger, earlier that evening.

            "Maybe I just need a fresh start. You know, just a whole new ball-o-wax. New place to live, new people to know, no banks breathin' down my neck. Whole new life, ya' know?"

            The tow-headed cop blew out an upward breath, saying, "Dont we all wish for that. Me and the missus'd sure like to be takin' that cruise we've always dreamed of. You heard of that Seminonni River cruise? The one through them little islands? Sure'd be fun to just start over all rich 'n' famous, but you and I both know that's not gonna happen to either of us, any time soon."

            Matt licked his lips, and nodded his assent, and both men lapsed into silence.

            A warm night breeze wafted through the one window at the front of the building, and the sounds of nocturnal insects could be heard, floating along melodiously on that same breeze. Matt had finally calmed to the point of reflectiveness, and he found his mind wandering, trying to find the meaning of his existence. He had to admit he liked Mark's company— not to mention the feeling of security afforded by being in a police station— but there was still something missing. His job was a bust. No relationship was on the horizon, no matter how hard he spun his mental wheels, thinking of ways to link up with the night-shift barmaid. His financial status was beyond dead and buried, and now he was the target of some kind of sick attempt to collect on that debt. It was one thing to deal with the list of predators that roamed the plains, and occassionally got onto the ranch. It wasn't all that different to go hunting the viscious Neernits in the woods. It was an entirely different thing to _be_ hunted, and to be hunted by sentient beings using logic, subtlety and ruthlessness.

            Matt had never before felt so vulnerable, had never felt so insecure. With a startle, he realised he had also never felt so alive, so energized as when he was fleeing for his life through a warped, old sheep's path in the middle of the night. The follow up logic was almost inevitable. _If I can just figure out who, what, where and when, then I can survive. I can win._ A deep stirring in his soul told him what it had been that he had longed for, and Matt knew at once that his destiny lay crossed with that of Adventure's. One epiphany after another flooded into his mind, and the young man came to understand that his childhood dreams and fantasies had been hastily and deliberately suppressed into such a dark, distant corner of his mind that he dare not even believe such things were allowable thoughts, let alone entertain them.

            It all made sense, now, why he always felt guilty watching "Steelshard Bladeheart," and why he was felt like a criminal every time he cracked open an issue of "Starships Today." He knew that his grandfather— and later himself— had so conditioned him to ignore the call of the stars, each time he gazed up into the night sky, that he no longer saw them as anything other than semi-daily pinpricks of light.

            He made to stand, but thought better of it. The facts still remained that he _wasn't_ sure about who was behind this, why, or where and when they'd strike. For all Matthew knew, Sheriff Borgerund could well be in league with the perpetrators. For all he knew, the whole _town_ might have been bought off by Clem MacIntyre, owner of Tanner's First Security Bank. No, adventurism, he realised, would best be tempered with at least a little caution, lest he be killed short of fulfilling himself.

            "Goin' somewhere, Matt?" Borgerund had obviously seen his aborted attempt to stand.

            "Thought about it. Why? Got something in mind?

            "Well, seeing as you're on the run, I figger the safest place for you to spend the night might be here in the Sheriff's office. Guns here for safety, and I've got the night watch. Those blood-s.uckers come around here looking for you tonight, and I'll make sure they've got something else to think 'bout, 'sides their cash."

            And if Mark's really working for them...

            "Tell ya' what, Mark. How's about you give me a police escort back to my place. We sweep the house to make sure it's clear, and then I just crash there. Granddad Lanza set up a  half-decent security system, so I figure I'll be safe enough, there."

            "You sure about that?" Matt read real concern in the officer's eyes, and took some comfort in that, knowing that Mark Borgerund, while a good enough cop, was no actor.

            Matt chewed his lip thoughtfully, and shrugged. "Yeah. Might as well. Maybe whoever's after me will figure me for having made a run for it, and there's a small chance they even saw me come in here. If I were smart, I'd take you up on your offer. I'm thinking that a bit of 'crazy' might throw 'em, eh?"

            Mark gave the younger man a lopsided grin and an obliging chuckle. "Matt, I never figger'd you for much of a schemer, but I gotta say you might just have something, there. Lemme grab my gun, and we can take my car."

            With a grateful smile, Matt stood up, adding, "Thanks, Mark. Guess you might just be right yourself."

            "'Bout what?"

            "Maybe I'm not really entirely without friends."

            It was bright and early the following morning when Mark Borgerund found himself at the Lanza ranch for a second time in as many days. This time, though, the sun was shining, making for a beautiful new day, in contrast to the angst-filled yesternight that marked his last visit.

            As he reached up to knock on the battered, wooden door, he cast an evaluating glance at the large, dark-haired man next to him. It had only been an hour since this out-of-towner had stopped by his office, requesting an escort to see "Mr. Matthew Sarray," and Mark still wasn't entirely sure what to make of him. While he seemed friendly enough, and his story plausible, Mark was always wary around rich folk from distant places.

            All the same, he couldn't help but admire the way the large blind man made a guy feel at home— inasmuch as possible, given the odd circumstances— and Jared seemed to have a great ability to laugh at himself, even pretending to run into walls after thoroughly feeling them out with his cane. Eventually, Mark had permitted himself to believe the man was not out to get Matt, and agreed— at Jared's request— to accompany him to the ranch, to ensure there was "no undue business," and that Matt was safe.

            Even then, however, there was just something that didn't quite seem... right.

            Jared stood patiently as the local Sheriff knocked. I still wish Gail had come with me.  I'm certain she was the better choice for this. All for the best, in any case, I assume. She may yet be feeling a failure.

            As he sat there, anticipating the arrival of his (possibly) future commanding officer, he noticed a slight quickening of his pulse, and a warm sense of excitement building in him.  only wish I could see the boy. See how much of his mother's side is in him. I wonder what Sterling would think of his nephew?

            It occurred to him, then, that maybe it really was better that the Dagger's attractive, young, sub-captain had refused to join him in making the offer to take Sterling's spot. She could be a problem, that one, if Matt takes too much of a liking to her. Even as he was forming the thought, another part of his mind dismissed it out of hand. While I hate to think it, I don't think the boy has a chance with her, in the slightest. She's like a Cyclone, that girl, when it comes to shooting down men that make passes on her. Still, the possibility of mutual attraction existed, and Jared had personal experience to back up oddly-paired couples, so he filed the idea away as something to keep an eye on.

            A few minutes passed as the two men waited on the creaking porch. Jared kept a slight, patient smile on his face as Sheriff Borgerund knocked twice more. At last, Jared's finely-tuned ears picked up what sounded like footfall on stairs, and listened as the sound approached the door. At last, I'll get to meet him again!

            What the heck is he doing, getting me up at this time in the morning? I thought I told him I'd be taking today off. Mark had heard the first knock, and ignored it. The second and third times were enough to convince him to reluctantly roll out of bed and see who it was that had the gall to bother him. Tugging on his pants, he rubbed his eyes and headed downstairs, stretching and yawning as he went.

            The face of Mark Borgerund wasn't what he expected to see through the door glass, but he just shrugged mentally, and went to answer it. He pulled open the door to say hello, and then saw…

            "Hello, Matthew. I've come to apologize, amongst other things."

            What on Soliven is he doing at my house again ?! Matt leapt back and made a run for the far side of the living room. He whipped the shotgun off its rack over the hearth, and covered the door with it as he determinedly made his way back to the front of the house.

            "Thought you were my friend, Mark. Now you're bringing 'em right to me, huh? Never figured you'd sell me out like that, Sheriff ."

            Mark hastily waved his hands in front of him, a look of fright crossing his face. "It ain't like that, Matt! This guy's here just to talk with you, and I'm along to make sure he don't do anything 'unt'ward' to ya', okay?"

            "What's saying MacIntyre didn't buy you off, too" Matt asked, peering alternately at the two men through slitted eyes.

            "Matt, come on, you know me better than that," and Mark put his hands in the air above his head in a gesture of harmelessness.

            "Everyone's got their price, Mark. What was yours? First class cabins for that river trip?"

            Mark exhaled in frustration. "Look, Matt. Just put the gun down and let us talk to you, okay? This here is a Mister Jared Panocha, and he says he's a friend of your family. Somethin' to do with that space-ace uncle of yours.  Look, I'm sorry for getting' you up so early. I know you planned on taking a day off, but I'm guessin' this is pretty important, what this boy has to say."

            Matt felt a wave of fatigue rush through him, and realized that his half-awake mind probably was overreacting a bit much. He lowered the gun, but kept a good grip on it. Rubbing at his eyes again, he reached out and made to unlock the door. "You're probably right, Mark, but if it's all the same, I'll just be holding onto Old Jimmy here, while we 'talk'." Mark dropped his arms, and made a promise on his father's grave that he was neither treacherous nor traitorous, and Matt let the two men in, keeping the gun pointed a the floor in front of them.

            As the large, raven-headed stranger followed the sheriff in, Matt immediately noticed the green and blue striped cane held in front of him. Either he really is blind, in which case I'm a fool for thinking him a killer, or he's sharp as a tack at this acting business, in which case I'm a fool for letting him through me door. That would explain why he's always wearing those shades, though. The tall, rotund man made nothing in the way of even a cursive glance at his surroundings  as he came through the door. Instead, he stopped, briefly, and then used his cane to feel out a path to a couch. He reached the old settee, but remained standing, turning in Matt's general direction.

            "Matthew Sarray, my name is Lieutenant Commander Jared Panocha, and it's a pleasure to meet you," said the visitor in calm, friendly tones, as he extended his right hand.

            A "Lieutenant Commander"? What's military brass doing, visiting me ?

            "I realize I may have given you quite the scare, the other night, but I'll admit that I wasn't actually expecting just such a random encounter like that, and I lost my tongue for a moment." Matt briefly weighed up the proffered hand before taking it, giving it a short, firm squeeze. The man who had introduced himself as "Jared Panocha" responded with the same, and Matt admired the solid, quiet strength he felt in this blind man before him.

            "Matt Sarray, owner of this hole and babysitter for the fattest bunch of zchek'zelks you'll ever see. Now, why are you here, and who sent you?"  Panocha turned slightly to his right, to more directly face his host. Matt found the blindness disturbing because of his unfamiliarity with it, but also took a small degree of pleasure in knowing he had a definite upper hand, if things went sour.

            "As I said, I am Lieutenant Commander Jared Panocha, Political Officer of the mercenary unit known as the Obsidian Daggers. It was founded and, until recently, commanded by your mother's brother, Sterling Lanza. I am here in his behalf, and on the behalf of the rest of the unit."

            Matt dropped the hand, and backed away, eying the merc warily. "Okay, so that tells me the 'who'. How 'bout the 'why'?"

            "Yes, probably the part you're most interested in, I imagine. Do you mind if I sit?"

            "Sure," Matt said, as he bobbed his head in the affirmative, and Jared settled, heavy and slow, onto the couch. Matt cringed as he heard the frame and springs moan in great protest.

            "You might want a seat too, Matt." Matt took up a chair, and turned it to face the Commander.

            "Well, do you want the long version, or the short version?"

            "Just give it to me straight."

            The blind man nodded and continued, "Your uncle has left both the Daggers and the sum of their assets to you. Aside from several other liquidatable assets is a lump sum of five hundred million credits.

            Matt almost had to stoop to pick up his jaw. "Five. Hundred. Million?!"

            "You heard me correctly. And, as I understand, you could use a bit of financial bailing out, at the moment. Am I right on that?"

            Matt nodded dumbly, not even realizing that the speaker's accent had already begun morphing into something he was much more used to.

            "Thought so. See, that's what I was trying to talk to you about, just the other night. Heh, all I managed to do was scare you off, I guess. Sorry 'bout that. Anyway, Sheriff Mark, here, told me all about your trouble with the bank. I know about your grandfather, and I realise that the debt wasn't your fault at all. In fact, to show you I'm serious about this offer I'm gonna make, I've used a bit of license to make a, er, funds transfer in your name."

            Matt blinked, but found his tongue despite his astonishment. "You mean, you paid off the million and a half? Just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. Jared smiled and nodded.

            "A million and a half. That's nuts," and all he could do was shake his head in utter astonishment. If what he was hearing were correct, the most crushing burden he'd ever felt had just evaporated like water under a nuclear blast. It was beyond conceivable.

            Jared's face took on an amused look. "Son, we've purchased cargo loads costing more than that. And we've done it several times."

            The rancher nodded eagerly, adding, "Well, I guess since you're giving me five hundred million, my debt must'a been chump change."

            Jared's lips did a reverse pucker, baring his teeth slightly, and Matt caught it instantly. Idiot! How could you forget—everything has strings attached!

 "This is a joke, isn't it?

"No joke, son. Just a condition. Your uncle Sterling didn't just 'give' you the money."

            "Figured. Well you can keep your conditions. I might be a rancher, but I know that when this much money is on the line, the 'conditions' are probably about as bad as they come." Matt folded his arms across his chest, and set his mind to refuse any argument the other man would use to convince him to go along with this ploy; even 500 million credits. Apparently, the visitor had an ace up his sleeve.

            "You want off this planet? You want out of this lifestyle?"

            The young man made to rebut, but stopped short. He suspiciously evaluated the odd, plump merc as he thought. "Yeah. I do. How'd you know that?"

            Sheriff Borgerund timidly raised his hand, ducking his head to one side. Matt stared at Mark as if to ask him what _hadn't_ shared with this complete stranger.

            "Look, Matt, I know where you're coming from. I was young, once, too, back before I lost my sight. I served with your uncle, but I also knew your parents. Heh, this isn't actually even really the second time we've met. But I can tell you've got your father's spirit of adventure. It ran in his family, and he ended up marrying into a family of spacers. You've got it coming from both sides, Matt.

            "You weren't meant to be tied to the ground. Right now, I bet you're feeling like a bird caught in a net; you can see the sky, and you long to be there, but you're trapped hard. Matt, you were meant for so much more than this." Matt wanted to fight the man's words, wanted to just run away from the end of what was surely no more than the best dream he'd ever had. Better to just kill it now, before it became so tangible he could hold it, only to have it snatched away with the morning's light.

            But he couldn't deny his desire to believe. His need to believe. As if he were in the middle of a consuming fire, he could feel the shackles melting away, and years worth of chains being burned clean from his soul. It was simply too good to be true, and yet, there was no way Matt could bring himself to deny it. Or to deny himself.

            Matt snapped out of his trance in time to hear Panocha say, " Sarrays belong to the stars, not to ranches and farms. This command will give you the…"

            Matt stiffened immediately. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Command?"

            Jared licked his lips and nodded again. "That's right, son. Command. As in, being in charge."

            "In charge of what?"

            Jared sighed and leaned back, drawing more groaning from the already taxed furniture. "You get command of the Obsidian Daggers. Your Uncle Sterling is giving you his old job."

            Matt's head was spinning. Just last night he'd thought himself the target of an angry banker. Next thing he knew, he was figuring out that most of his life had been a self-made lie, followed by magical occurrence that promised to hand him all his dreams on a silver platter. _Command a merc unit? Fly my_ own _starship? Shralla in the cosmos, how much longer can I stay asleep and keep this dream going?_

            "Matt? You alright, bud," Mark asked, concern in his voice. Matt just blinked again, and waggled his head, weakly. "You want some water or something?" Another shake of the head.

            "I know this is an awful lot to chew on, right now, and I'll understand if you refuse. Running an outfit like the Dagger's isn't for the weak of mind or stomach. I won't be offended if you just tell me to get lost and never come back." Jared had leaned forward, again, and was making to get up.

            "No! "

            "Okay. I'm sorry to hear that, but the choice…"

            "I mean, 'no, don't leave.' Please, sit. Tell me more."

            And the Derivian Lieutenant Commander obliged. For the next two hours, a young farm boy sat in rapt attention as what may as well have been a fairy godfather poured out Matt's wildest fantasies before him. Details of Lanza's will gave way to tales of cruising the stars, battling pirates, rescuing the oppressed, and—of course—the obligatory grateful women that came with the job.

            For Matt, however, the most intriguing story came when Jared explained the circumstances of Sterling's death. The Daggers were on contract to liberate a nameless, backwater planet from its tyrannical governor. The population was smaller than flyspeck, and maintained nothing more than a token militia and a veteran bodyguard unit attached to the Governor. The militia doubled as a planetary police force, though there was only one town of any note on the entire world. The Daggers studied the target, the intelligence, and their readiness status, and determined the job do-able.

            Things followed the plan to a "tee" during the initial landing and the early marine action. The five-being covert operations team infiltrated, hit their targets, and exfiltrated without a hitch, leaving the Governor's main power grid a smoking heap of rubble, and cutting off the command/control/ communicate, or "C3" abilities of the enemy. The militia had been taken completely by surprise, and was still sorting things out when the Dagger's main ground forces hit the town.

            The marines had gone in full-bore, hooting, hollering and blazing away with everything they had, doing a high-tech rendition of a bird puffing its feathers out to appear larger and deadlier than it is. The half-trained militiamen broke and ran, despite that they heavily outnumbered the Dagger's troops.  The bodyguard unit, however, had already been put through their paces, and offered a much stiffer resistance, resulting in some casualties (and some fatalities) for the Daggers. But the mercenary company proved why it wasn't considered "green," and within two hours, the 84-being company had secured the planet's capital city.

            Then all shioll broke loose. While the marines were busy licking their wounds (and patting each others backs), a pair of military-grade interceptors ripped out of hyperspace, uncloaked, and jumped the Wildcard. While the heavy cruiser found itself fighting fire with fire, a cloaked transport shot down to the planet below, dumping an entire regiment of ground troops on the outskirts of the city. Luck alone had put the new arrivals on the side opposite the Dagger's drop shuttles, but the running retreat had been costly for Lanza's unit.

            House to house fighting degenerated into a flat-out run, with the tanks holding a solid, but steadily receding line, providing the best cover possible for the infantry and light vehicles. The tanks held longer than expected, but when one of them went up in a boiling fireball, it was clear the fight was over for the Daggers. Still a kilometer from their last hope of salvation, the enemy ranks made a charge at the failing mercenary lines, hoping to crush the unit in a single blow.

            Just as the charge reached full-tilt, Sterling Lanza snapped. In his one-man battle tank, he redefined the word "berserk." Some of the crew swore they saw at least one of the main guns melt off from the heat of sustained and furious fire, but the mass confusion, thick cover of smoke and the heat of battle never allowed for that tale to be more than a rumour.

            Lanza made a one-man counter charge that would have made the Light Brigade proud, and the reinforcements were caught flat-footed. Within five minutes, Sterling Lanza and his tank, Mauler I, were slag. But that five minutes proved just enough time for the remaining troops to reach the shuttles and make for orbit.

            The battle above the planet had gone little better for the Daggers. The interceptors, while neither as well-armed or protected as the heavy cruiser, danced around it, biting at it like a pair of wolves  attacking a grizzly bear. But attrition, skill— and a little luck— handed a victory to the bear. Even as the cruiser was cloaking and heading for the magnetic poles of the planet to seek shelter for making repairs, when what should breach the atmospher but a freighter full of troops, hot on the tail of a handful of military dropships.

            Wildcard responded like a mother bear would, should her cubs be threatened, and before the transport could complete its braking retro-burn, it was heading quickly planetside, once more— in a hundred thousand pieces. The skirmish had ended in favour of the Obsidian Daggers. But their victory proved a phyrric one, at best.

            For almost four days, the battered cruiser lay in a low orbit above the planet's northern pole, the crew doing its best to bring the ship back to at least a marignally combat-worthy status, before attempting to break orbit. Upon the completion of best possible repairs, the half-gutted unit had limped to the nearest station, where they could get more extensive patching up. Unfortunately, some of the ship's large, modular equipment slots had been thrashed to inoperable states during the fighting, and the DathKaran station stocked neither internal repair modules nor the much valued drone transponder that helped the 'Card sneak past unfriendly drone forces, forcing the unit to look elsewhere for replacement parts.

            The repairs, however, combined with the great losses to the sneak attack, had sapped the Daggers in financial ways, too. Reduced from near 200 members to a number in the mid-80s, the need to recruit replacements was painfully obvious. But the veteran mercenaries knew well that skill was a difficult enough purchase, and unit integrity and compatability was something that no amount of money could buy.  Their chagrin was heightened when they arrived on Peridon V, headquarters of the Bureau of Mercenary Affairs and Business. BMAB readily reminded them of the terms of the will as laid down by their late Captain, and temporarily suspended their registry. The lack of registration, even for only a few months, often spelled the death of even moderately-sized units like the Obsidian Daggers, since few, if any, employers would touch them, and generally, only the less-than-scrupulous crowd was willing to consider signing on with an unregistered unit.

            And so the the Obsidian Daggers found themselves between the proverbial rock and hard place: either disband, taking their (shaky) chances with the turbulent and terribly unpredictable world of the  disenfranchised mercenary, or take a completely untried civilian as their new Head.

            They chose option "B."

            Jared laid it all out, in a larger-than-average nutshell, and Matt ate up every last bit of it. When the story wrapped up with Jared's visit to Soliven (and an editted explanation of Cheif Ward Vralla's little car-chase), the poli-officer lapsed into silence. For some time, no one moved or said a word. The heat of the rising sun rolled into the living room in waves, but a stirring south wind brought the fresh, familiar scent of rain with it, promising a lovely, temperate morning. The quiet stillness was broken up only by the gentle, hollow hootings of the native whanfrey birds.

            The mood in the room was one of contemplation, mingled with shock. Matt's head still reeled, only now it was filled with more dreams than he ever dared believe possible. The fact that the Daggers had been so badly pounded filtered into his mind as a "cause" that only he could help. Suddenly, he was no longer Matt Sarray, backwoods rancher; he was Captain Matthew Sarray, saviour of what was destined to be the greatest mercenary unit of all time.

            "Lieutenant Commander Panocha," Matt asked abruptly, "Consider yourself a lucky man. When can we leave?"


End file.
